


Angels for the Ethical Treatment of Plants

by shella688



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley sure loves his plants, I refuse to believe Crowley can read, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, along with one (1) angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 08:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19292293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shella688/pseuds/shella688
Summary: The world is no longer ending (for now) and Crowley's back making sure all his plants know their proper place....Allof them?





	Angels for the Ethical Treatment of Plants

It was two and a half weeks after Armagedidn't and Crowley was threatening his plants. Some of his threats were quite inventive.

The cowering greenery was made well aware of what could happen if they stunted their growth, informed Hell as to Crowley's whereabouts, dropped their leaves, or said anything about Aziraphale in general.

(Whether or not they were planning to do these things - or even if they had control over the fact - was immaterial. Sometimes, Crowley needed to let his anger out.)

Behind him, a throat was cleared - loudly and intentionally. Crowley spun around with the demeanour of one who, should they find that, despite all evidence, the throat being cleared belonged to a plant, then said plant would quickly find themselves evicted off this mortal coil, possibly by means of the garbage disposal, or possibly by being thrown out of the window.

Aziraphale cleared his throat again.  
"Crowley my dear, don't you think you're too hard on them?" Aziraphale  bent down to inspect one shivering orchid, smiling encouragingly at it.  "Look at the poor things - they're terrified!"

Crowley - safely out of Aziraphale's field of view - made a face.  
"Oh stay out of it angel. It's a well known gardening method - and if it works for human plants I'll be damned if it doesn't work for demon ones."  
Aziraphale, who had stood back up, looked on the verge of interrupting; possibly to comment on how they're all the same kind of plant, really, and how _speaking to_  doesn't mean _threatening with the inevitable effects of the force of gravity_.  
"It's not like I tell you how to run you bookshop is it?" Crowley demanded quickly, pointing an accusing finger at the other.

Aziraphale sighed and let the subject drop. Crowley did have a point after all.  
"Anyway," he said. "There was something I needed to talk to you about."

"Fantastic! Shall we go outside? How about sushi?" Crowley spoke rapidly as he shepherded a mildly protesting (only mildly though - it's amazing how easily some people can be bribed) Aziraphale out of the room and cast one last look back.

He mouthed, very intentionally and very clearly: "Not. A. Word." and shut the door behind him.

The sight of a room full of plants (not renowned for their ability to talk, or to possess mouths) trying their hardest to ensure their lips remained firmly sealed was certainly something.

•••   •••   •••

Four weeks after Armage-going-going-gone, would-be visitors to an antique book dealership in Soho suddenly remembered any number of more pressing engagements that regrettably meant they had to postpone their visit.

(Aziraphale has years of practise at making sure no-one entered his shop unless he _really_  wanted them to.  
Crowley is a bastard who cares deeply for his angel.  
Neither were fully sure who was responsible for the empty shop this time)

The angel was sat at his desk, inspecting the first-edition _Just William_  books a certain Antichrist had kind of gifted to him after the Armageddon That Wasn't. Occasionally, he let out a small hum of appreciation.  
"You simply must see this Crowley. Original print! And with the type of mistakes they always fix later on. My dear, look!" Aziraphale was babbling excitedly, with the implication that he would have been brandishing the book at the demon were he a more uncouth sort who couldn't respect old books.

(Aziraphale is almost singlehandedly responsible for ensuring that words such as "uncouth" remain in the dictionary, despite being used so rarely by any self-respecting human in speech)

Crowley had made it his mission to cover as much of the sofa with his body as he physically could. Looking at his unnaturally contorted limbs was almost enough to make one stop believing in regular three-dimensional space.

He was nodding along to Aziraphale in all the right gaps, in the manner of one who is genuinely pleased the other has a hobby and a passion, but can't bring themselves to care about it that deeply.

(Antonius J. Crowley was a fixture of Renaissance Italy in the 14th century and hated every moment of it. It's entirely possible he never learned to read as a sort of "fuck you" to that period of knowledge, enlightenment, and sudden book availability.)

Aziraphale sighed, rubbed his eyes, and started packing his equipment away, going through a complicated process that ensured everything ended up  _exactly_  where it started.

There was probably ritualistic magic involved.

"Before you go, my dear, I've something for you," said Aziraphale, with a smile that was decidedly self-satisfied as he stood up and entered a back room

Crowley braced himself for tartan, but sat up more normally regardless. Everyone loves presents, even six thousand year-old demons.

A few moments later, the angel emerged with something that used to be a pot with a plant in, but which was now mostly just plant. A tartan bow around the pot could just be seen behind all the vines and leaves.

Crowley was speechless. He was still trying to produce coherent thoughts when Aziraphale snickered.

(Yes, honest to someone _snickered_. Good old fashioned snickering doesn't happen much anymore)

"And listen to this," he said, barely suppressing his glee. "It's called _d_ _evil's ivy_ "

•••   •••   •••

5 and a quater weeks after Ragnaroh-no-wait-nevermind, Crowley's plant room was exactly the same as before, with no newcomers or suspiciously-empty-pots. The existing plants had got the message.

Just outside the plant room, however, the flat was a little different. Out of view of the other plants, near a window where it received all the sunlight it could want, a devil's ivy plant overflowed from a pot somewhere near the ceiling to almost the floor. Some errant vines had been cut back, allowing a neat tartan bow, wrapped around the pot, to be seen.

Crowley had planned to treat it no differently to the rest of his plants. But when he thought about shouting at it, he found it too much like shouting at Aziraphale.

He couldn't bring himself to do that.

So the ivy had been re-homed away from the watchful eyes of the others.

It was growing brilliantly, and Crowley loved how happy Aziraphale looked whenever he saw it.

The devil's ivy was one of the most verdant, luscious, and doted on plant in all of London.

(It and Aziraphale would often talk together - not _gossiping_  obviously, who do you think they are? - when Crowley wasn't listening. But he doesn't need to know that)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I was seeing how many different things I could call the Apocaloss (even if an angel and a demom aren't _technically_ affected by Ragnarok)  
> EDIT: I'm loving all the other Apocalet-down names you all are thinking up


End file.
